


Twenty Six

by nottonyharrison



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel 3490, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom, Thor (Movies)
Genre: A-Z, AU, Angst, Each chapter is a different story, Everything is fair game, Experimental, F/M, Fem!Tony, Fluff, Future possibilities for the MCU, Gen, Genderswap, Lady Loki, M/M, Pre-Slash, Ship all the ships, Visits from other parts of the multiverse, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:06:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 15,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nottonyharrison/pseuds/nottonyharrison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An A-Z of The Avengers, featuring as many characters, ships and genres as I can cram into twenty six drabbles and one shots.</p><p>Pairing or characters listed in each chapter title.  Not everything is shippy, some are just character studies, and there are even appearances from characters we have't yet seen in the MCU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One: Steve Likes (Tony/Steve)

**Author's Note:**

> I have a word randomizer, I have some characters, and I a lot of thoughts knocking about in my brain. Time to do an A-Z of The Avengers. This is basically my dumping ground for writing exercises and drabbles, so please don't be to harsh on the con-crit. Nothing will be betaed, nothing will be meticulously plotted, and I doubt anything will go over 2000 words.
> 
> If you really like any of the ideas, feel free to beg for more, or gank the idea (although credit would be appreciated).
> 
> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable character, settings etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended, and no financial gain is resulting from this work.

One. Steve Likes

Prompt word: Artist (Seriously, that was the first A word the randomizer spat out, no shit) , Steve/Tony, 213 words, PG

 

...

Steve likes... stuff. Steve likes precision and truth and irony and the smell of New York after it rains. Steve likes pancakes and burgers and drinking milkshakes at the diner window while watching the world go by. Steve likes watching Natasha and Clint dance around one another like an abstract tango, he likes Thor's booming voice and Bruce's quiet humor. Steve doesn't like Tony.

Steve doesn't like dismissal. Steve doesn't like privilege or entitlement. He doesn't like sarcasm or spite, or the way Tony makes all these things seem like a beautiful whirlwind of color and movement that surround him until he's unsure how to escape. Steve hates the way Tony makes him feel.

Steve hates the ache in his chest when sees Tony covered in grease and sweat from days in his workshop. Steve hates the hollow feeling in his throat when Iron Man is smashed into walls or roads or Hulk. Steve hates the compulsion to draw everything about Tony. Steve loves to draw.

Steve loves the feel of paper against the heel of his hand. Steve loves the charcoal smudges he finds hours after putting away his tools. Steve loves sitting in the quiet of the workshop, watching chaos become order; drawing movement and wonder and beauty. Steve wants.

Steve likes and doesn't like and hates and loves and _wants_.

_End_


	2. Two:  Teamwork (Clint & Tony)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Button. 390 words. Clint and Tony banter.

“Jesus _fuck_ , Stark.”

Dented and prone, Iron Man was still. Unresponsive. Dark apart from an intermittent flicker of reserve power from the flashy panel in the chest. Clint leaned over the scratched and warped metal of the chest plate and ducked his head until his ear lay against the cooling suit.

“Push the button, Clint!”

“Give me a sec, Steve. The suit's a bit... dented.”

The comm was silent, and he heard the sound of vibranium hitting stone from the other end of the street. Peering beneath the chin of the helmet he managed to locate the small, tightly fitted circle placed on the jaw panel and pressed. The helmet disassembled itself and fell to the cracked concrete of the sidewalk with a clatter.

Tony's grinning face stared back at him and Clint slapped him around the head. “You asshole.”

Tony's smile just broadened and he winked. “Miss me?”

“No!” Clint huffed and sat back on his heels, sighing heavily in relief.

“You totally did.”

“I did not.”

“Did too.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

“If I could move, I would. Push the chest release, would you?”

Clint groped around the side of Iron Man's torso until he found the subtle ridge he was looking for. He pressed, a mechanical knocking and grinding making Tony wince, and he wiggled.”

“Bit stuck there, Stark?”

“Try the arms?”

Clint found the releases on both arms, and they successfully broke down. Tony groped around at the chest, pulling a tiny screwdriver from goodness knows where. Eventually he managed to detach enough panels to pull his legs free, and sat up.

The hug surprised both of them, and as Tony's arms gripped him tightly around his waist, Clint squeezed and rubbed the palm of his hand over the other man's back.

“Dude, I'm so glad we talked you into those manual releases. I'm not sure I can handle a grieving Pepper around the tower.”

Tony laughed, and patted him on the hip. “Backhanded compliment? Not quite a you _like me, you really like me_ moment.”

Clint smiled and pulled back, gripping Tony by the shoulders and looking at him sternly. Tony raised his eyebrows, mouth turned up slightly.

“There's a fine line, Tony. A very fine line.”

 

_End._


	3. Three:  Ribbon (Natasha)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt word: Curl. 475 words, Clint/Natasha if you squint really hard, G

There was a time when Natalia would have ignored birthdays and Christmas, or any other day that usually involved family and gifts and that thing called _merriment._

But then one year, Barton had shown up at the door to her tiny S.H.I.E.L.D. assigned quarters, a small box held in his hands, wrapped haphazardly in a sheet of what looked like A4 paper. A zip tie was wrapped around it in place of a ribbon, and a smiley face and the words _Scary Lady_ were scrawled on the side in Sharpie.

Natasha had frowned as she peered at the LCD security screen and yanked the door open, crossing her arms and glaring.

“What?”

Clint had grinned and held out his hand, thrusting the gift at her chest, and started singing an awful rendition of the _Happy Birthday_ song. She had slammed the door in his face.

And so, every year on the anniversary of her defection, he gave her a gift. Because even _she_ didn't know when her birthday was. Usually the gift was a bit shit, and wrapped in something he'd found in the office supplies locker, but it was hers, and it was from someone who she had actually slowly come to _like,_ rather than just respect his skills.

She warmed to the anglicized version of her name, she stopped calling him Barton unless they were on mission, she started giving him gifts in return. They were even worse than his crappy knickknacks, often a bit rude, and always broke within five minutes of him receiving them, but at least she spent more than twenty seconds on the wrapping.

She wrapped in tissue and shiny foil. She wrapped in cellophane and fabric and fancy paper she found in middle eastern markets. She wrapped with ribbon and string and wire, but her favorite thing came when she had to use the scissors for something other than cutting.

So now she sat on the floor of her bedroom, a small pile of neatly wrapped gifts in front of her, holding the sharp tool in one hand, and a roll of bright red curling ribbon in the other.

She wrapped the red around a blue package with a wide white satin ribbon across the middle. She pulled and pulled until there were loose curls and tight curls and medium sized curls. She tied more and more until the roll of ribbon was all used up, and she smiled.

There was a red package with yellow ribbon, a green package with purple, a black package with red and white, and finally there was Clint's.

A piece of black polythene garbage bag with a strip of purple polyester webbing, and the smallest of them all. But not crappy. This year, it was perfect.

And she couldn't wait to see his expression when he saw that he didn't have any curls.

_End._


	4. Four:  Beauty and Desire (Steve/Darcy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Definition. 633 words, Steve/Darcy, PG-13

It's just kissing. That's all. Sometimes she pushes him up against a wall and kisses him until he's almost breathless, trembling with want. Sometimes she presses her lips to his neck when he's least expecting it, and he twitches in surprise, but just a tiny bit.

Sometimes she kisses him until they're both trembling and gasping, hands running along fabric that covers both hard and soft flesh. Sometimes he wants more than kissing.

But it that's all it is. Sometimes desperate, sometimes tender, sometimes chaste, but always just kissing.

To say he can't remember where it started would be silly. The serum had gifted him with an eidetic memory, almost a curse when his brain is filled to burst with memories of beauty and desire, mixing in with those of war and loneliness.

Now, he's on a hard S.H.I.E.L.D. bunk, soft full lips tugging on his ear lobe. His breath comes in harsh gasps as her hips grind into his stomach. He clutches at her waist, fingers digging into the soft, pliable, naked skin. She whimpers and bites down, and he groans.

“Gosh, Darcy...”

Her mouth scrapes down his neck and he shivers, rolling over until her heels are digging into his back ahe's pressing her roughly into the mattress. She laughs and pulls his mouth back to hers, and he relents for just a moment, tongue lingering against tongue, the momentary clarity once again becomes fuzzy and forgotten until she bites down teasingly on his lower lip.

“Darcy... Darcy stop for a sec.” He pulls his head away from hers and she frowns.

“What's wrong?” He leans on his left arm and scratches his scalp with his free hand, pressing his forehead against her sternum, before meeting her eyes again.

“Nothing, it's just... what are we, you know, doing here?”

The wrinkle in her forehead deepens and she rubs a hand up and down his arm. “I think it's pretty obvs, don't you?”

He ducks his head and bites his lip. “I mean... it's just kissing, right?”

“If you want it to be...” It sounds like she's going to say more, but her voice trails off until there is an uncomfortable silence. “Do you want more?”

“I... I don't do that with just anyone.”

“So I'm just some girl?” She trys to shove him off but he holds firm. “I thought we had something interesting going here, Steve. But clearly you're just using me for practise.”

“No. _No._ That's not what I meant at all!” He's emphatic, and a little confused. “I thought we were just-”

“I don't make out with just anyone, you know.” He buries his head in her shoulder and mumbles a response, mouth moving against her naked skin.

“I'm really bad at this modern romance crap.”

She snorts, unladylike but still endearing. His heart jumps and he aches to explore her body with his lips and hands. “I guess I didn't really think about whether or not you're up on the twenty first century relationships bizzo.”

“Can you just clarify exactly what's going on here? Because I really... like you a lot. More than a lot, a _lot_.” He's staring at her again, eyes wide and vulnerable. She smiles and rests her palm against his cheek, thumb stroking at the side of his nose.

“You want me to _define_ what we're doing?” Her eyes twinkle, and she grins cheekily. “I'm pretty sure it's an exchange of saliva that generally insinuates sexual attraction.”

“Is that all it is?”

“No. No Steve, I don't think it is.”

“Good, I'm glad.”

“Yay. Excellent. Now more kissing, or do you want me to _define_ third base as well?”

_End._


	5. Five:  Running from the Cold (Tony/Steve)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt word: Escape. 945 words, Steve/Tony, PG-13. Artwork for this vignette at the end.

He's running. He's running as fast and as hard as he can, but still he can feel his pursuer behind him. A faceless menace that refuses to give up, is there with him wherever he goes.

 

He runs and runs until the Wonder Wheel is looming over him. The smell of hot dogs and clams and fried dough permeates the air, and he slows. He walks now, until he's on the boardwalk and weaving between the early evening crowd. It's a Saturday in July, and it's busy enough for him to go unnoticed.

 

His tee shirt clings to him, and he tugs at it, flapping it against his skin until the breeze cools him down. He leans over a barrel and looks out at the ocean, heart pounding and muscles burning. It's the closest to alive he's felt since the Chitauri. Since the endless wait began.

 

Since he met Tony. Since he met Natasha. Since he met Clint and Bruce and Thor. Since he felt the memories of seventy years ago fade for just a few hours, the present finally becoming forefront in his mind.

 

But now it's just waiting. Waiting for threats and foes and war. Waiting for the duties he was created for.

 

His heartbeat pounds in his ears and he almost doesn't hear the muted roar of repulsors land next to him. Iron Man stands there, glowing eyes drilling into his, and after a few moments Tony lifts up the faceplate.

 

“Worried about you, Cap.” Tony is smiling, but there is a note of concern there. Something that he doesn't often allow to be heard. “Not every day your pet super soldier bolts out of your apartment, runs twenty miles at breakneck speed, and stops to stare at a dirty old beach.”

 

Steve grimaces and turns back toward the ocean. “Too much, Tony.”

 

“Too much what? Too much talking? Too much concern? Too much of me?” Tony puts a cold metal hand on his shoulder and turns him away from the water. “Too much what, Steve?”

 

“I'm not your pet. I'm not anyones pet.”

 

“Jesus, Rogers. I wasn't being serious.” He frowns and returns his hand to his side. “You don't actually feel like you're... a pet. Do you?”

 

Steve sighs and smiles sardonically. “You house me, you feed me, you keep me entertained. It's like SHIELD just dumped me on you and...” He sighs heavily and scratches his head. “You know what? Forget it.”

 

“What makes you think you got dumped on me?”

 

Steve lets out a bark of laughter and rolls his eyes. “Come on, Tony. I'm not under any illusions about whether or not you want me in the tower.”

 

“Of course I want you in the tower? Why else would I give you an apartment and a gym and a... studio... thing.” Tony's genuinely confused now, but Steve doesn't see it, instead studying the lacing pattern of his trainers intently.

 

“I don't know what I'm doing. there.. here... anywhere, Tony.”

 

“What are you running from?” Tony's hands are back on his shoulders now, the firm grip of the guantlets hard enough for the fingertips to dig into the muscle a little. Steve winces and looks back up, Tony's face only inches from his.

 

“Really, it doesn't matter.”

 

“Are you running from me? Did I do something to piss you off? What?”

 

“I'm running from _me_ , okay? I just... it's like the ice froze me inside and I haven't quite thawed out yet.” He patted the Iron Man suit on the shoulder and attempted a grin. “I'm sure even an engineering genius can't fix a broken soldier out of his time.”

 

“Can we bet on this, or is that more of an empty challenge?”

 

“No challenge, just a fact.” Steve's hand is still on the shoulder of the suit and he leaves it there, caught in Tony's penetrating gaze.

 

“You know what else is a fact, Cap?”

 

“What?”

 

“I would never _ever_ do something to make Nick Fury's life easier. Not even if it means I get the best ass on the planet wandering all around and up in my space every day.”

 

“I'm... not sure that even made grammatical sense.”

 

“Yeah, well I'm an engineer, not an English professor.”

 

Steve's grinning now, genuine and warm, and Tony's eyes are twinkling with unspoken mischief. “I um-”

 

He's cut off by Tony's lips, soft and warm and kissing him right there in the middle of the boardwalk. He can feel the eyes of curious onlookers on them, and he doesn't care, instead sliding his hand from Iron Man's shoulder and up to the neck, tugging Tony closer and kissing him back. It's chaste and sweet and a little awkward thanks to the bulk of Tony's suit, but it makes his heart flutter and warmth spread through his chest.

 

“I think we might have just made the front cover of the tabloids.” Tony's mouth is still touching his, his lips brushing Steve's as speaks.

 

“At least this time you won't have to sue for defamation.” Despite his quick retort, Steve is wide eyed and blushing, his heart still pounding in a mixture of surprise and desire. “Did you seriously just kiss me, in full Iron Man regalia, in front of the whole of Coney Island?

 

“Not the _whole_ of Coney Island. Just the boardwalk.” Tony slings his arm over Steve's shoulder and turns, grinning and winking at the wide eyed bystanders. “Come on, let's go home.”

 

_End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  [Artwork by nottonyharrison](http://nottonyharrison.deviantart.com/#/d5salci)


	6. Six:  Beautiful, Terrible, Wonderful (Tony/Natasha)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Fire. 322 words, Tony/Natasha, PG-13
> 
> This one is _very_ experimental, and basically 322 words of metaphor, so apologies if it's not really what anyone following was hoping for!

Tony burns bright and hot like a Bunsen burner. Natasha is cold and remote like the frozen ocean where the Captain was found.

Tony is volatile and animated, sweeping people up in his path before they can escape. Natasha is calculating and observant, preferring to sit and watch the chaos than be a part of it.

Natasha sees Tony fall in love with Pepper. Complete and consuming and _good_. Later, Natasha sees Tony makes every excuse to see Pepper, takes every chance he can to have dinner, or lunch, or even just ten minutes alone. Natasha sees Tony and Pepper unravel before they even know it's coming.

Tony sees Natasha keep Clint at arms length. Tony sees Natasha crave and need and _love_. Tony sees Natasha watching, and Tony sees Natasha wanting, and Tony sees _Natasha._

He's fire, and she's ice, and it's a horrible cliché. He's fire and she's ice and it's never going to end well. But he's fire, and she's ice, and you know what they say about opposites.

Sometime he burns fast, and she melts quickly, giving in when she should push him away and leave. Sometimes he burns slow, and she wishes for more urgency, for walls and tables and any other hard surface at hand.

When it's fast he takes and she gives, and they are both left with bruises and scrapes and emptiness. When it's slow she takes and he gives, and they're left with aching and needing and something neither can quite put their finger on.

Tony's fire, and Natasha's ice. Tony is burning and noise and destruction. Tony is beautiful and terrible and wonderful.

Tony's fire, and Natasha's ice. Natasha is stillness and silence and Russia. Natasha is beautiful and terrible and wonderful.

Tony's fire, and Natasha's ice. They are beautiful and terrible and wonderful.

Tony's fire, and Natasha's ice. Together, they are nothing. 

Tony's fire, and Natasha's ice. Together, they are life.

_End._


	7. Seven:  Modification (Tony/Clint)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Galvanize. 504 words, Tony/Clint, PG
> 
> Okay, so some of these words are nearly fucking impossible to come up with anything for, so bear with me on this one (yes, I seriously used the first word for each letter that popped up using an online randomizer, I'm committed to this shit, yo). Also, sometimes I have a lot of IronHawk feels, so I just couldn't stop myself. Sorry about the overabundance of Tony in these dribs and drabs, he's my favorite character to write.

Tony sometimes has moments where he's infuriated by everyone calling him reckless. He quiets, closes his expression, and sends what he considers thought rays of doom at Clint.

Clint who is just as human as he is. Clint who has no suit of armor, or supersoldier serum. Clint who isn't impervious, or godly. Clint who hides behind Natasha's apparent similarity, assuming ignorance from the rest of the team.

Tony's not an idiot. He often chooses to expend his mental energy on intellectual pursuits over the subtleties of human interaction, but he knows a man with a death wish when he sees one. He looks at Clint and he sees a reflection with a different face, and it's frightening.

And yet Clint's all smiles and jokes and cocky come-ons. He's got a smart mouth, a quick wit, and will hit on anything with a pulse. He walks around the tower in nothing but a towel, and winks at the cleaning staff. He takes great glee in breaking into Tony's apartment and putting all the coffee in the freezer. He does handstands on the edge of the helipad, and goads Natasha into ludicrous stamina competitions that he knows he can never win.

So Tony sees right through the bluster and smokescreens, and watches Clint become more and more reckless. He watches as Clint needlessly jumps off buildings. He watches as Clint gets too close to the freak of the week, and has to resort to his hand to hand skills. He watches as Clint gets stabbed and shot and nearly break his back, over and over, and over.

He starts modifying Clint's uniform in secret. Careful to keep it looking and feeling the same, he experiments with different compounds between the layers of fabric. He gets rid of the Kevlar, and replaces it with a modified version of the alloy he uses in the suit. He inserts a smart back brace that only activates when it senses imminent impact. He sneaks around replacing old models with new, and somehow thinks he's getting away with it.

He's never going to be able to add sleeves to the suit without Clint knowing, so he resigns himself to a confrontation, secretly hoping that his openness will deflect any niggling suspicion on Clint's part.

And so what if sometimes he forgets that, although human, Clint is fundamentally a spy. So what if he forgets that nothing goes unnoticed around people with level seven SHIELD security clearance. He forgets or he chooses ignorance, or he's just being an idiot; who knows what his brain is up to.

So what if his heart is pounding erratically in his chest as Clint calls him an overprotective douchebag. So what if his fingers tingle as he prods at the other man's arm and makes a crack about precious appendages. So what if he feels like something has suddenly disappeared from his abdomen as Clint shoves him repeatedly until he's backed up against a window.

So what if he kisses back like Clint is air.

_End_


	8. Eight:  Hail and Homonyms (Team)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hail. 490 words, Gen, PG-13

Despite the chill of the Asgardian winter air, water falling from the sky - be it frozen or liquid - wasn't really a thing. Water just sort of... appeared; as you would expect from a magical realm.

So when the roar of ice hitting the penthouse balcony managed to drown out Thor's booming voice for a moment, he couldn't help but press his nose to the windows in a moment of childish wonder. The walkway that housed Tony's disassembly rig was covered in white, and small pieces of hail hit the windows, splattering icy trails across the glass.

"What is this snow-like noise that falls from the sky?"

Clint snorted and rolled his eyes. "Dude, is there  _anything_  on this planet that you aren't confused by?"

"Hail, Thor." Natasha smacked Clint around the head, and turned back to her oatmeal.

Thor looked confused for a moment, before he grinned and turned back to the group gathered around the enormous dining table. "Although I appreciate your sentiments, I do not wish for you to treat me as your leige."

Clint tried to keep a straight face for a moment, his failure spectacular as he let his head drop to the table in a fit of uncontrollable giggles.

"What have I done that amuses you so, Mister Barton?"

Natasha shook her head and shoved Clint's shoulder, hard enough for his chair to tip. The resulting crash and grunt of pain made her smile, and she turned back to Thor.

"It's called Hail."

Thor frowned. "You humans have many words with the same meaning."

Tony looked up from his tablet, eyebrows raised. "How does that... Allspeak thing work, anyway? Is it like Hitchhikers where you have a fish stuck in your ear?" Thor looked alarmed for a moment, and Natasha glared at Tony, who flinched away. "Unlike Barton, I don't get turned on by needless violence. You push me over, JARVIS gives you fucking hail  _showers_  for a week."

Natasha smirked and turned back to Thor. Clint was standing next to him now, cracking his back and shoulders as he watched the hail come down.

None of them had noticed Bruce slip outside, until Clint found himself with a handful if icy cold, wet slush down his back.

" _Fuck!_ Oh, it's  _on,_ Banner!"

Thor's booming laugh echoed through the room as Clint bolted for the balcony doors, and he shook his head and grinned. "You Midgardians... I do rather like you."

Tony smiled sardonically as Clint scooped up as much ice from outside as he could fit in his large hands. "Yeah? Well let's see if that sentiment sticks, I reckon you're about to get a face full of freezing."

"It would be my  _honour_ , Mister Stark."

Tony looked at him strangely for a moment, before turning back to his tablet. "Dude, you are a very, very odd being."

_End._


	9. Nine:  Fast and Loose (Darcy/Phil)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Insult. 443 words, Darcy/Phil, R.

Phil has never really been one for insults. He enjoys subtle sarcasm and almost ironic obedience over outright cruelty. He gives Darcy back her iPod the next time he is in New Mexico.

He gives Darcy her iPod back the next time he is in New Mexico, and she somehow managed to procure his personal cellphone number. Phil is an idiot.

Phil is an idiot. Darcy plays fast and loose with words, teasing and mocking him when he is in Puente Antiguo, sending him nonsensical text messages when he isn't. He prefers the teasing and mocking.

He prefers the teasing and mocking. He responds with cutting cleverness and derision. Trading insults with Darcy is like playing verbal chicken with Jon Stewart, and he loves it. New Mexico is dry and barren, but yet so full of joy.

New Mexico is dry and barren, but yet so full of joy. Phil belittles and Darcy antagonizes, and then he's fucking her against a brick wall behind a dumpster. She tells him he's too old to fuck her properly, and he tells her she's too young to have ever been fucked properly.

He tells her she's too young to have ever been fucked properly, and she tells him to stop being a pussy and show her how it's done. He's still in his suit, her jeans are tossed over her shoulder. Her lips are hot and slick against his, and he shoves her hard into the brickwork. She whimpers.

She whimpers and writhes and pulls him closer, fingers of one hand digging into his butt, the other pulling roughly on his hair. He shoves and gasps and hitches her higher against him, palms pressing hard into her thighs and mouth on her throat. She laughs and encourages and shudders silently against him.

She laughs and encourages and shudders silently against him, as he bites her collarbone and presses her even harder against the wall. She zips him up and pulls him out of the alley towards the abandoned gas station.

The abandoned gas station is where it starts.

It starts in the gas station, and then six months later, Phil is lying on a gurney in an intensive care unit, mechanical heart installed, and lung repaired. He smiles as he sees the dark hair in the doorway, and raises an eyebrow.

“How many times do I have to tell you, we buffed out the scratch on the case?”

“It's the music that matters, not the fucking iPod.”

His eyebrow is raised and then his smile is a wide grin, and she sits on the small chair next to the bed and takes his hand.

_End._   



	10. Ten:  Breakfast (Steve & Natasha)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jug. 642 words, Steve & Natasha, G

 

In hindsight, Steve would admit that perhaps pancakes hadn't been the best idea. The ladle he has found in the utensil drawer is fancy, expensive, and ultimately useless. There is more batter dribbled around the hot plates than in the pan, and what _has_ made it in has formed misshapen blobs that could maybe pass for round, only if he looks in the other direction and visualizes their form in his head.

Even following JARVIS's careful instruction, he's managed to make a mess of the whole situation, really.

So when Natasha strolls in at half past six, stopping for a bottle of water on her way to the gym, she freezes in the doorway and backs away slowly, clearly not stupid enough to subject herself to cleanup duty. Steve lets her go, feigning ignorance.

Eventually, he gives up and tosses what he's made in the bin and resigns himself to making everyone scrambled eggs again. He's about to rinse the bowl and flush the batter down the sink when the hair on the back of his neck pricks up, and he sees a flash of bright red out of the corner of his eye.

Her hand is on his wrist now and she's moving his arm back towards the bench. Her face is set in what passes for a smile, and she shoves a glass jug under his nose.

“Here, use this. It'll be easier.”

He raises an eyebrow and takes the Pyrex from her, frowning down at the wide bowl in comparison to the narrow jug.

“You tip the bowl and I'll make sure it doesn't go everywhere.”

He smiles hesitantly and does as she says, holding the metal patiently as she uses the ladle to guide the batter into the glass.

“JARVIS was clearly holding back on the tips and tricks.”

“I merely chose the recipe with the greatest star rating, Captain Rogers.”

Steve's smile turns into a grin and he hip checks Natasha. “So where did you learn all the sneaky pancake tricks?”

Natasha pauses for a moment and smiles up at him. “Even you don't have the correct clearance for that information, Rogers.” He chuckles, watching her as she finishes filling the jug. “Okay, now just pour blobs into the pan. You got a tray ready and the oven on to keep them warm?”

He blinks, realizes he's staring, and looks behind him at the enormous oven. “Uh... yeah.” He grabs a tray out of one of the drawers, drops it on the bench with a clatter, and goes to find fresh spatula.

“Steve.”

He looks up from the drawer he's peering in. “Yeah?”

“It gets better.”

He blinks and wrinkles his forehead. “What get's better?”

She ignores the question. “You and I aren't as different as you think.”

He turns back to the drawer and pulls out a metal spatula, spinning it in his hand as he turns back to the kitchen island. “I'm not sure I follow.”

“There are only three people on the planet who have read my file. One of them is Nick Fury, one's myself, and the other is six feet under in Arlington.” She reaches out and presses something small into his free hand. “I thought it was important that you become number four, and the Director agrees. You know, team leader and all that.”

He looks down at his hand at the small black flash drive and closes his fingers around it. Natasha turns back to the jug of batter and picks it up, handing it to him when he's set down the spatula and shoved the drive into the pocket of his pajama pants.

“I like mine with bacon and banana.”

He grins and takes the batter. “And maple syrup.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

_End._


	11. Eleven:  Clint is Totally not into Cats (Clint/Darcy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Kitten. 826 words, Clint/Darcy, PG-13
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has left kudos, bookmarked, or subscribed <3

So it goes like this.

Clint is totally not into cats. Like he fucking hates the damn things. He thinks that Grumpy Cat creature is _maybe_ okay, but anything else should be... something horrible that he shouldn't really say aloud.

And fuck Darcy for being all into cats, because she's like, _oh em gee, look at the cute kitteh,_ and he's just tearing his hear out because they're in a mall, and the crowds make him antsy and _can we just move on from the damn pet shop already so you can buy that thing Jane needs and then go back to the goddamn desert._

And no, it's not a question. It's an order that he's shouting in his stupid dumb head, because Darcy just looks so fucking gorgeous with her nose pressed against the pet store window and _fuck._

So what if this whole day was supposed to be about wheedling information from Doctor Foster, staring at Darcy's incredible ass is just _so much better_ and oh god he really needs to stop staring at her ass. And her tits. And her lips. And her hair. And her fucking stupid eyes with their dumb sexy little glasses that are actually kinda strong so her face looks way narrower when you look closely and _ugh._

He's got it bad. Agent Coulson knows he's got it bad. Natasha knows he's got it bad. Fuck, he would bet twenty bucks Director _Fury_ even knows he's got it bad. And it's not like he's even spent any time with her. Because he's always been stuck on a roof, or a rock, or a crane. Or something else watching what the hell is going on down there in that old gas station, and fuck if it wasn't the first time he'd ever _wanted_ to be up close and personal with something.

And now that he is all up close and personal, and Darcy is all _look at the cute_ , and he's just standing there like a spare fucking dick at a wedding, and he can just reach out and touch her, and he's realizing he's been a total creeper.

Because she's what? Like, twenty two? He was too busy staring at her lips in the photo of her file to bother reading anything past her name. Stupid, stupid _stupid,_ old man. Because that's what he is. A creepy fucking old man who's got it bad for a girl who is probably going to spend the rest of her life either scaring the shit out of old fart politicians, or getting shoved into a S.H.I.E.L.D. office job because she knows too much.

And he knows that's ironic, because she couldn't really give two flying fucks about astrophysics, or gods, or whatever the fuck is going on in New Mexico apart from aquiring course credits.

And oh _shit_ he really shouldn't know that. Or care. Or... anything.

And oh _double shit_ she's talking to him but this time it's not all about the damn kittens and he's pretty sure she just said _hey, Agent Sexy_ and oh my god if he isn't blushing for the first time since he was thirteen and the ringmaster's assistant kissed him behind the popcorn stand and...

“Yes, Miss Lewis?”

“Do you think Jane will mind if I bring home a cat? Erik's allergic but now that he's working on whatever the hell all the secrecy is about I reckon she'll let me.”

“I um... perhaps you should check with Doctor Foster first?”

“She probably wouldn't even notice, anyway.”

“Listen, I really think we should get to Radio Shack and buy the parts Doctor Foster needs. You know, considering that's why I'm even in this part of the desert in the first place...”

“Oh chill, Agent Forearms.”

“I... what?”

And then she points at Clint's arms that have been crossed over his chest during the entire exchange, and prods at the muscle next to one of his elbows... and he should be saying something clever but instead he can feel the back of his neck heat up, and he narrows his eyes as a reflex against the blush and wills it to stay away from his cheeks because it's only the second time this has happened since that time when he was twelve and the same ringmasters assistant pulled his pants down in front of a whole group of girls and they all laughed at his worn out Y-fronts and knobby knees and...

“What about my forearms?”

“They're hot.” And she's licking her lips and smiling this ridiculously sexy smile and then one of her eyebrows is raised and she bites her lip and... “Bet they'd look even hotter with a cute little kitten snuggled up in them.”

And before you know it he's blurting out something that's not clever or cutting or snarky, and it's just fucking _stupid_ but...

“You wanna go out some time?” 

_End._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cough* I would really love some feeedback *cough*


	12. Twelve:  Kill Switch (Clint/Natasha)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Lung. 841 words, Clint/Natasha, PG-13  
> As well as the prompt word, this was also inspired by a couple of drawings I've done over the past couple of days. See the end notes for the images.

The smell of burning rubber fills her nostrils as she runs towards the ten foot tall bile-yellow insect that has Steve by the ankles. Her hand thrusts out and she jabs at the back of what appear to be its knees, a one two punch behind joints.

The creature drops Steve, but swipes an arm back, knocking her into a pile of tires, and she gasps for air.

“You okay?” Cap shouts over the roar of the fire, holding up his shield to protect her from the blazing heat of the monster's breath. She nods and he gives her a hand up, then runs back into the fray, cutting off three sets of legs with one toss of the shield as he goes.

An hour later, it's all over. Hotspots are being dampened down by the local fire department, and Natasha stands over one of the enormous creatures that created the havoc, face set in an expression of disgust. She kicks at its torso, splattering black ooze over the gravel of the scrapyard.

“Science, my ass,” She mutters, looking back towards the New York skyline. The whole disgusting event has just cemented her dislike of Newark. Something heavy hits her hard across the back, and she yells out in pain, turning just in time to see a bright yellow tail flop back against the ground. Coughing, she leans over, hands on her knees, attempting to catch her breath.

“Nat!”

She licks at the trickle of blood that has escaped her mouth, the split lip one of many minor injuries from the fight. “I'm okay.. think maybe I just might have a collapsed lung.”

Clint's boots made it into her line of vision, and she smiles weakly as he crouches down in front of her. “ _Just_ a collapsed lung? When are you going to learn that a bit of Russian super juice isn't going to turn you into Supergirl?”

“Fuck you, asshole. Why can't I be Super _man_?”

He grins and chucks her under the chin. “I stand corrected. You know, I'm really working on that _respecting my elders_ thing.”

She smacks him across the head, and lets him catch the hand and place it over his shoulders. She presses into him, tucked carefully under his arm as he helps her back towards the rest of the team, and the waiting ambulances.

“Thanks.”

He looks at her curiously. “For what?”

The corner of her mouth turns up a little, although the expression comes across as more of a grimace than a smile. “Just, you know. Helping.”

He laughs, and her lips curve properly in a full blown grin.

“Stop mocking me.” Her words are indignant, but her tone is full of mirth, despite the wheeze in her voice.

“Me, mock? Never.”

They're at the ambulance now, and she has turned to him fully; close, but careful not to put more pressure on her already damaged lung. “You know, it really fucking hurts to talk right now, but I still feel it's my right to defend the way I express my gratitude.”

“If you weren't injured, I would totally ask for a blowjob.”

She smacks him on the shoulder with the arm that isn't still around his torso, and then slides her fingertips under the sleeve of his vest. His eyes widen, and she kisses him firmly on the lips, closed mouthed and chaste, pulling away just as his eyelids flutter shut.

“That... was totally because I'm feeling a bit lightheaded from this whole one lung thing.” It's nothing they haven't done before, but it's the first time it's not for a mission.

“You keep telling yourself that.” His voice cracks a little and he brushes a finger across her cheek, gentle against the shadow of a bruise already forming. A paramedic is shouting at them from behind, but he ignores her, instead wrapping the hand in Natasha's hair and rubbing his thumb against her temple. “I love you, you know that right?”

She smiles briefly, before letting out a sharp cough and dropping her forehead against his chest. “I think maybe I need to go to hospital now.”

“Aaand Superman admits defeat.”

He sits beside her in the SHIELD medivac chopper, teasing and goading her into staying awake on the flight to the helicarrier. Eventually, she grabs a wildly gesticulating hand and looks at him pointedly.

“You can stop thinking I'm going to drop dead any second, it's just a collapsed lung. Nothing I haven't had before... you've seen me worse.”

He grimaces, and she can see him process all the tight scrapes they've been in in their last ten years working together. “Yeah, but I--”

“But nothing.” She holds onto his hand for the rest of the flight, heart heavy and mouth desperately wanting to say those three words back.

But she can't, because she's almost certain the moment she does there won't be a Natasha left to love.

_  
_

_End._   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **  
> [Art by nottonyharrison](http://nottonyharrison.deviantart.com/) **


	13. Thirteen:  Catching Up (Phil Coulson & Jessica Drew)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Mercenary. 863 words, Phil Coulson & Jessica Drew, PG.

It's Montana where he catches up with her. She's working as a private investigator, even has the business card to prove it, and he watches her from a distance for two weeks.

She takes on three cases. One is a run of the mill _wife cheats on her husband_ story, the other two are both corporate espionage. At the end of the second week, both of the corporate cases have a body count, and Phil's sure he's got his woman.

She's calling herself Jennifer Webber. He's calling himself Patrick Zosimos. He has a two encounters with her in a local bar, and she gives him her card.

He keeps the card in his wallet, even though he's memorized the details. He also has a packet of postage stamps in there, a pheromone inhibitor in place of the gum, but he's down to his last two.

The third time they meet, it's in the local Walmart, in the cleaning products aisle. She's rummaging through the shelf of vinyl gloves, making frustrated grunts every few seconds.

“Can't find the right size?”

Her head turns, and she raises an eyebrow. “Apparently all the Walmarts in Helena only cater to people with tiny hands.”

“It's the cold. Shrinks all your extremities, not just the wedding tackle.” He smiles affably, and she snorts a laugh. He hasn't taken the inhibitor, and his heart flutters a little at the smirk that follows.

“Are you following me, Mister Zosimos, or is this just coincidence?”

He lies and tells her he lives around the corner, fighting against the baser instinct to tell her why he's really in Montana. He takes his wallet out and pulls out her card, using the movement to scrape a finger across one of the stamps. He flinches, pretending the thin cardboard has cut him, and sucks on the the finger, mumbling as he makes sure to remove as much of the chemical as possble.

“Guess I won't be needing this then.” He holds up the business card between two fingers. “I was actually about to call you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, do you--” He coughs as he swallows thickly, heart slowing as the inhibitor works its way into his blood stream. She frowns and peers at him curiously.

“You okay?”

“Yep, fine,” he chokes out, swallowing thickly. “I actually need some help with something, can I make an appointment?”

She looks at him with narrowed eyes for a moment before responding. “I'm actually free now, if you can wait for me to do my shopping. My office is only a couple of blocks away.”

He nods. “Sure... meet you out front then?”

He walks around the store hurriedly and picks up a few living essentials to keep up appearances, getting in line behind her at the checkouts. She still doesn't have any gloves.

“No luck with the gloves then?” He's still feeling the effects of the pheromones a little and can't help but state the obvious, mouth twisted in a slightly silly grin.

“Nope.” She glances back over her shoulder. “So what exactly are we dealing with here? Wife? Embezzlement? I've just realized I don't even know what you do for a living.”

“It's... sensitive.”

She nods and steps forward. The store only has the two checkouts open and it's lunchtime. Phil taps his foot in frustration. It's another ten minutes before they make it through the queue,

She walks with purpose, long legs striding towards the small building where she rents an office, and he has to hurry to keep up, blue shopping bag knocking against his leg. She's a little taller than he, and he finds himself hoping she doesn't react unfavorably when he makes his offer.

He needn't have worried. As she sits behind her desk, she gestures to the cheap plastic chair opposite, and reaches into a drawer with her free hand. She tosses a file down on the wood veneer top, and meets his eyes. He is careful to remain guarded, but raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“And here I thought I was here to hire your services.”

She spreads her hands across the desk and scratches lightly with her short nails. He picks up the file, eyes still fixed on hers.

“Do you really think I don't know a SHIELD agent when I see one?”

“How long?”

“Only since Boise. You nearly got me there.”

He bows his head and smiles. “Yeah, well I had some stuff to deal with in New Mexico.” He opens the file.

“I'll only affiliate with your lot on those terms.”

He glances briefly at the three sheets of paper in the folder, and nods. “Seems reasonable.”

He hears a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the desk, and fights back the urge to chuckle. “Miss Drew, I believe it would be pertinent at this point in time to ask if you have any other requests.” He looks back up, and he catches her surprise before she closes her expression.

“No.” 

“Then welcome to the Avengers, Spider-Woman.”

 

_End._  



	14. Fourteen:  Not Allowed (Fem!Tony/Steve)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Number. 1661 words, Steve/fem!Tony, PG-13
> 
> There are some self hate triggers here, mentions of alcoholism and depression, as well as drug dependency and neglect (as there generally is when you're dealing with Tony's childhood). Really not a shipper fic, more of a character study. Mentions of Tony screwing anything pretty.

9.

Natasha is nine months old when she speaks her first word in the relative silence of a nursery. It's almost midnight, and the noise from the party downstairs has lowered to a muted hum. The nanny is in the next room, Howard's face buried between her legs, and she doesn't hear the quiet and questioning request for Jarvis.

When no one comes, Natasha sits back down in her crib and goes back to figuring out a way to climb the high slats that surround her.

The next morning, the nanny finds her sitting next to bench made from wooden blocks, cloth diaper tied around her waist. A crude attempt at imitating the family's butler.

The nanny picks Natasha up and puts her back in the crib.

 

4.

Natasha is four when she first speaks to another person. It's Howard, and she tells him to fuck off. Maria laughs, and says ' _yes, Howard, please do fuck off'_ , before telling Jarvis to cancel the appointment with the psychologist.

Natasha watches Howard leave the room, scotch in his hand. Maria turns to her daughter and pops a pill, swallowing it down with a gulp of pinot. She raises one too thin eyebrow and tells Natasha that she can fuck off too, and the nanny takes the little girl's hand and leads her back to her bedroom.

The next day at a playgroup, Natasha tells one of the other girls to fuck off, and gets hits her over the head with a Baby Alive doll.

 

10.

When she's ten, she decides she decides _Natasha_ is too girly a name, and she prefers her middle name, _Antonia_. She begins introducing herself as _Tony_. She cuts her hair short in the bathroom one afternoon after the driver has dropped her off from school.

She asks Jarvis to take her shopping in the boys section. She doesn't say anything to the sales assistant when he asks if the items are for her brother.

As they're walking out of Macy's, Tony turns to Jarvis and tells him she's going to be the first female Secretary of defense. Jarvis looks down smiling and asks why not the president, and Tony grins and tells him she knows who really calls the shots in the White House.

 

12.

Tony doesn't like high school from the moment she sets foot on the campus. She sticks to the corners and the edges of the corridors, not bothering to make friends, and not noticeable enough to make enemies. For the first month, she watches and waits.

She's let her hair grow back now, but still refuses to wear girls clothing. Jarvis says she looks like Annie Hall. Tony likes Diane Keaton, so she keeps wearing the vests and slacks, even though everyone around her is in jumpsuits and leg warmers.

One day, the teacher calls for Natasha and nobody answers. It takes her a few moments to realize he means _her_ and responds with a sharp ' _What?'._ The teacher sends her to the principal's office.

 

13.

Tony has money and wit and a cutting tongue. She has a group of boys who follow her around like stray dogs waiting for scraps. She uses them to get what she wants, she insidiously plants ideas into their heads, she wins at anything she does and takes everything else.

She's thirteen and she's a genius. She's thirteen and she has already won in the eat or be eaten world of high school.

She's thirteen and she already hates who she is becoming.

 

15.

She's drunk when she meets James Rhodes, and she tries to fuck him. He's eighteen and a fellow freshman, she thinks he's an easy target but he gets her home safe. She's obnoxious and loud, she wears bright red lipstick and tight jeans and flannel shirts. She's fifteen and full of bravado that can only come from a deep seated dislike of herself.

She tells him to fuck off, or fuck _her_ as they're walking back to her dorm. He puts an arm around her waist and stops her from pitching into the agapanthus bushes next to one of the frat houses.

He sits her down on her desk chair and carefully picks up the half finished robot that's sitting on her bed, putting It in a far corner where she won't be likely to smash it on her way to the bathroom. She smiles at him and asks him to be her friend. 

He says yes, and she's happy.

 

17.

She doesn't even know her parents are dead until they're at the funeral home. She receives the doctorate in physics with nobody but Jarvis and Rhodey looking on, and three days later Obadiah is sitting across a conference table telling her about the accident.

She doesn't care.

 

21.

Tony is twenty-one when she takes back control of Stark Industries. It's silly and idealistic and ridiculous, and it's 1991. It's unheard of for a woman to be CEO of a government weapons contractor.

She hires the best human rights lawyers in the country and sues the board for discrimination. She wins, and buys them all out of their shareholdings.

Jarvis dies, and she cries for the first time since...

She's on the cover of _TIME_. She's on every news broadcast in the US, and most in about a hundred other countries too.

She watches _Saturday Night Live_ and gets drunk on a thousand dollar bottle of twenty year old Macallan. Dana Carvey is wearing a black wig and bright red lipstick, and she'll admit that the feminist jokes are actually quite funny.

She falls asleep on her couch and wakes up the next morning feeling dirty and used.

 

28.

Pepper is beautiful and smart, and Tony's not allowed to sleep with her.

Rhodey is beautiful and smart, and Tony's not allowed to sleep with him.

Tony goes to a benefit with some latin singer with great pecs. Pepper spends the evening trying to stop Tony dragging him to the bathroom for a quickie. Pepper tells her to wait until the limo ride home.

 

29.

On her twenty-ninth birthday, Tony gets spectacularly drunk and sends out a memo. The next morning, in the chaotic aftermath of the party, the cleaning staff circle around the chair she has woken up in, and Pepper shouts at her from the other side of the room.

“What the hell is this?”

“Whaaa?”

Pepper is holding up a sheet of A4 paper, waving it in the air as she strides across one of the many living rooms of the mansion. Tony glances up blearily as it's shoved in her face.

“I don't remember sending that out.”

“Well, it's happening. R&D is packing up as we speak.”

Tony smiles and closes her eyes again. “Good, I like the sun out west better anyway.”

 

32.

It takes her three years, but she eventually creates an artificial intelligence system to run the house. Pepper thinks it's creepy, and Obadiah narrows his eyes whenever he visits.

JARVIS reminds her when she has appointments and meetings, and Tony quickly instructs him not to do _that_. She says it's because she doesn't want Pepper to feel useless.

JARVIS tells people to fuck off in the most polite way possible.

 

38.

She's standing on top of a building in Queens, and Pepper is in front of her ranting about dog years and resignations and other crap Tony doesn't really care about because _fuck_ does this woman not care that she almost _died_.

And then Rhodey is taking Pepper by the arm and telling her to think things through overnight, and they're off into the night, flying low and slow back to god knows where.

She sits on the edge of the building until the sun rises, and she feels empty. The next day she visits Justin Hammer in his cell, turns the cameras off with a device she hasn't told the DoD about, and smashes Hammer's face into the edge of the small stainless steel basin.

 

4.

Captain America is standing in front of her, and she's acting just like she did when she was four, and telling Howard to fuck off.

His sneering face is inches from hers, and she's stepped up, shoving her nose as near his as she dares, telling him she crushes men like him without even breaking a sweat. He laughs mirthlessly and tells her she's nothing but a little girl in a fancy suit. She shoves him hard in the chest and he stumbles back in surprise, a hard glint in his eye. She tells him to call her when his IQ improves by about ninety points.

Then there's an explosion and everything is a blur until she's flying a nuke through an interdimenional wormhole.

 

0.

Black.

The void of space calls, and she pauses for a moment before releasing the bomb and firing one last reserve repulsor blast.

Black.

Red. White. Blue.

“Please tell me somebody kissed me.”

Rogers grimaces, and shes rambling about middle eastern food. She licks her lips and pushes herself up into a sitting position.

“So what exactly happened to all the aliens?”

 

1.

Tony knows Pepper disapproves. For as long as they have known each other, Tony has been a paragon of hedonism. She thought Pepper would agree with even the most bizarre form of monogomy.

But then Rhodey points out that regular hate sex with the same person isn't exactly a healthy relationship, and why does she dislike Cap so much anyway, and to be honest, Tony's always put more stock in _his_ opinion when it comes to relationships.

So the next time she's pressed up against the concrete walls of her lab, hand squeezing roughly at a large bicep, she pauses for a moment and pulls her lips away from Rogers', breath a little ragged and thin.

“I wanna be a better person.”

For the first time since...

She wants to...

Steve's just so...

Steve.

_End._


	15. Fifteen:  Men, Women, and Robots (Steve)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Overrepresented. 519 words, Steve, PG-13  
> Art for this chapter in the end notes.

Steve couldn't help feel a little uncomfortable about his propensity to land himself in these kind of situations. And when saying _these kind if situations,_ it's of course in reference to a craptastic female to male ratio.

 

He's not really that bothered about the battle thing. Secretly, he kind of revels in smashing mutants and aliens with his shield.

 

And it's not like he doesn't like working with men, he just feels like sometimes a woman's touch would be beneficial. Not that he's being a sexist douche and putting all women in one metaphorical basket, because that's not at all how he rolls. Even if he was born during the first world war, when corsets were only just disappearing from wardrobes, he generally subscribes to the theory of _people are people, now let's get on with it._

 

But honestly, when you're facing down a twenty foot tall robot that has been programmed to respond amicably to any woman who addresses it, you tend to wish the only girl on your team wasn't laid up on the couch with two broken ankles.

 

So now he's stuck herding a gigantic pile of metal with the rest of his _male_ teammates, while they wait for some superhero with a ridiculous name to show up. And Steve is kind of pissed that he's never heard of a goddamn _flying woman who calls herself Captain Marvel._

 

Also, he totally thought he had the market cornered on the whole _Captain_ thing.

 

But more than anything he's pissed that the woman isn't interested in joining their team. Because all this testosterone flying about is starting to become a problem, and he thinks maybe Natasha is getting sick of being a buffer between egos. Particularly between Clint and Tony, who really just seem to spend most of their free time antagonizing one another until someone storms off in a huff and doesn't show their face for two days straight.

 

Which is a problem, because Steve quite likes both Clint and Tony. And he really doesn't like having to take food down to the workshop and risk being extinguished by DUM-E, every time he realizes Tony hasn't eaten in goodness knows how long.

 

But before he can head down that path of hair pulling frustration, Captain Marvel is hovering in front of the robot's face, blond hair streaming behind her in the breeze, and five minutes later the thing is sitting in the middle of the road telling her how it's lonely. And that the engineer who created him wouldn't give him a copy of the New York Times to read in the morning and instead makes it download the headlines. And that all it really wants is another robot to hang out with... and are those _tears?_

 

Steve shakes his head and trudges back to the Quinjet, leaving Tony and _Captain fucking Marvel_ to deal with the robot. Tony already has a dangerous glint in his eye, and Steve doesn't want to be there when the glint turns into a salvage claim.

 

Forget about male over representation, he's starting to become more concerned about artificial intelligence.

 

_End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Art by [nottonyharrison at deviantart](http://nottonyharrison.deviantart.com/)


	16. Sixteen:  A Ruler of Men (Sif and Lady Loki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt word: Partilineal. 380 words, Gen (Lady Loki and Sif), PG.

The sword was carelessly resting against her leather clad shoulder as she looked out upon the assembly. A sea of bowed heads greeted her cool gaze, and she smiled mirthlessly, voice echoing through the great chamber.

“Those of you who wish to speak ill of a woman ruling this realm, please do feel free to stand.” She waved her free hand flippantly. Everyone remained on their knees, no sound other than a the occasional harsh intake of breath. “Well this is all rather excellent. I must say, I'm impressed with your ability to open your minds, when faced with an eternity trapped within the mists of Niffleheim.”

She dropped the sword from her shoulder, and rested the tip against the gleaming stone of the dais. “Well then, shall we feast? I do believe we have the blood of your lord Odin to drink on this fine eve.”

A woman stood, brave and proud against the backdrop of a cowering mass, her face a reflection of her new ruler. Her voice was true and sure, not wavering in her challenge. “Although I do not object to a woman ruling Asgard, I do not believe it prudent to allow our realm to fall into the hands of a liar and murderer.”

The woman moved forward until she was in front of the first step leading to the throne. “You have taken my body, Loki. I shall not let you take my liberty as well.”

Loki laughed. “Your lords Odin and Thor are dead. How do you wish to battle when faced with the magic of Laevateinn?” She spun the sword in her hand, the tip still pointed at the ground.

Sif met her gaze evenly, eyebrow raised and a glint in her eye. “That is none of your concern. Let it be known I challenge you in battle for the throne.” She spun on her heel and strode towards the grand entrance, far in the distance of the enormous hall. Loki watched her leave, eyes narrowed to slits.

“You shall be struck down, Lady Sif. Killing good warriors is not my intent as ruler, but I shall send you to the next realm if this is what you desire." 

Sif did not look back.

 

_End._


	17. Seventeen:  Sixth time's the charm (Natasha)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt word: Quit. 414 words, Gen (Natasha), PG.

The first time didn't really count because... well does it really count as resigning if you were only there by coercion?

So the first time is _really_ when she's forty-four and newly defected. It's nineteen seventy two, and a really bad time to be a Russian working for the Americans. She's tired. Exhausted. There's an account in the Caymans that has enough in it to last a few lifetimes. She knows it's not enough, but she decides to do it anyway.

But then there's a moment where she's hanging from her wrists in a freezing cave half way up some mountain in Tibet, and she's having a crisis of confidence, and she thinks maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. is okay, you know, seeing as they're rescuing her and all.

Then Agent Fury comes busting in, guns blazing, both eyes trained on the agents surrounding him. The resulting chaos culminates in Fury taking a knife to the eye socket, and she thinks maybe a few more years won't be so bad.

The second, third, and fourth times she chalks down to moments of sleep deprived insanity, and buries them in the deepest recesses of her mind.

The fifth time, she's stuck in a bunker in Ostrava. It's January, and freezing, and the only comfort she has is Clint's continual mindless monologue. The Cayman account has grown now, it's large enough to support her through many extravagant lifetimes, and she thinks maybe she's ready. But then she looks at Clint and her heart feels warm, and she yeah okay so she hasn't kept that part of her as well protected as she thought.

The sixth and last time, she's standing in front of an enormous space leviathan, helping clean up the remains of the Chitauri attack. Clint is sitting atop its head, peering into what appears to be some form of cockpit, and Tony is hovering just below, prodding at the electrical circuits in the eye.

In the distance she can see Stark tower, a looming monolith at the far end of the street. The 'A' still sits proudly, if a little precariously, on the side, and Natasha smiles. Digging her fingernails into the sleeve of her left arm, she tears at the SHIELD insignia and tosses in the nearest dumpster, smearing a dirty finger on the exposed skin as she strides towards the mouth of the creature, a mirror of the glittering letter atop _Avengers_ tower.

She thinks maybe she'll start calling the Cayman account the _rainy day fund._

 

_End._


	18. Eighteen:  Lightener (Darcy and Tony)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Redhead. 712 words, Gen (Darcy and Tony), PG-13

Darcy has never been the kind of person to snub her nose at an opportunity, but she can't help feel that this one is more of a punishment. Wrong place, wrong time... wrong degree.

Stuck in eternal SHIELD servitude all because of a couple of course credits.

Although going by the press release she's currently drafting, perhaps political science is more useful than she originally thought. Why Tony's asked _her_ to write the damn thing is something she's trying not to dwell on. He seems to have it in his head that personal assistant means she does _everything_ , and she hasn't quite figured out how exactly to do her own delegation yet. Or if there is, in fact, anyone she can delegate _to._

I mean honestly, doesn't he have _people_ for this kind of thing?

But then she thinks about it, and really the whole mess is personal, but not really serious enough for Stark Industries to be putting out an official statement. In fact, she really just think's Tony's doing it to mess with the press, but she's trying really hard not to open her big mouth about that idea.

“Oi! Lewis!”

The loud voice makes her jump, and she looks up at the ceiling out of habit. “Yes, Mister Stark?”

“Pepper says I'm not allowed to be mean to the press any more.”

Darcy frowns and looks back at the monitor. “But...”

“Remember that meeting we had last week with the woman from Larry King with the eno--”

“Yes, Tony. I remember.” She rolls her eyes and leans back in her chair.

“Yeah well... the board wasn't too thrilled with the bit where I--”

“Please don't remind me.” There's a cough, and a clatter, and she sits up a little straighter. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah fine. Just might... can you come down to the shop and... you know what? Don't worry I've got it.”

“Whatever.” She closes the word processor window and starts checking through the emails from the last half an hour. Three messages in, Tony's voice fills the room once again.

“I changed my mind.”

“About the press release?”

“No, about needing a... hand.”

 

…

 

He's sprawled on the floor when she makes it downstairs, moving around a fixed point as if he's doing some sort of weird interpretive dance.

“Did you glue your hand to the floor again?”

He looks over, frown firmly on his lips, but when his eyes land on her, they widen and a look of horror overtakes his features. He scrambles around for a few moments, his arm bending at an odd angle, and he makes a pained noise before looking back at her.

“Jesus fuck, Lewis. What the hell have you done to your hair?”

“I was trying to go blonde.”

“You don't think I'm already dealing with enough problems stemming from gingers?”

“Hey! I object to--”

“I mean... what the hell was the hairdresser thinking?”

“It's from the drug store.”

“ _What?_ ”

“You know, out of a box?”

He curls his lips in distaste and she moves towards him, grabbing some solvent as she passes the workbench. Crouching down, she ruffles his hair and smiles, and he glares at her darkly.

“Don't worry, it'll be back to normal in a couple of days.”

“Shit, how long does it take to get through the checkout at the CVS?”

“Do you want me to go even _more_ ginger?”

“Ew. No.”

“Then give it a couple of days.” He shuffles uncomfortably for a moment, and she looks down at his hand. “Okay, now where did you put the Q-tips?”

“I think Clint used them all when I bet him he couldn't shoot them through a hole I drilled in the window.”

“Why is it that I feel like I'm the adult in this arrangement?”

Tony frowns and tries to lunge at her, but she scoots away quickly. “I resent that, I'm twice your age and have six times the education. Besides, I would _never_ do that to my hair.”

“You keep telling yourself that, buddy. I've seen the photos.”

_End._

 


	19. Nineteen:  Give and Take (Steve/Tony(ish))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt word: Solenoidal. 252 words, Steve/Tony(ish), PG.  
> Really quite weird. Sorry about that.

There's an electromagnet in Tony's chest. It's about two and a half inches round, and four inches deep. It glows blue, and has a triangular shape in the center.

There's an electromagnet in Tony's chest. It glows blue, and has a triangular shape in the center. It stops shrapnel from tearing apart his arteries and heart. It's heavy, and it's metal, and it almost killed him once.

There's an electromagnet in Tony's chest. It's heavy, and it's metal, and it almost killed him once. Steve can feel an almost subtle pull on the shield when he's near, but Tony tells him it's all in his head.

There's an electromagnet in Tony's chest. The pull Steve feels is all in his head.

There's a pull. A tug. Something that draws Steve towards Tony.

There's a pull and a tug.

There's a repulsion.

There's an electromagnet in Tony's chest. Sometimes Steve feels a pull, and sometimes Steve feels a repulsion.

There's an electromagnet in Tony's chest. It glows blue, there's a triangle in the center. It's blue.

It should be blue.

Why is it dark?

Why does Steve still feel the force?

There's an electromagnet in Tony's chest. The force is all in Steve's head.

There's an electromagnet in Tony's chest. It shouldn't be flickering like that. Steve doesn't have the shield, but the pull is still there.

So why does he want to run?

There's an electromagnet in Tony's chest. It's glowing blue. Steve feels a tug and a repulsion.

Give and take.

 

_End._


	20. Twenty:  Mutually Beneficial (Pepper)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Traversing. 307 words, undertones of Pepper/Natasha and Pepper/Tony, PG-13

There's this strange sense of urgency every time he does something he's not supposed to. And he just _does it_. Whatever the hell he wants, no matter the consequences; and here she is bridging the gap between chaos and order.

After the promotion, she doesn't know what's happening. Her own thoughts are scattered and muddled, despite her cool exterior. Natalie is there to do her old job now, competent and efficient and not unlike herself. She would be lying if she said she wasn't jealous.

So she lets the gap widen. Leaves Tony to his own thing, and she focuses on running Stark Industries. After the party, she suggests that perhaps Tony would be best left to his own devices for a while, and Natalie comes to work for her. Tony doesn't need an assistant anyway. He has JARVIS.

She has her suspicions, she really does. She learned to recognize the signs after Obadiah.

The tingle that runs down her spine isn't foreboding this time. It's more of a pleasant shiver, a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach when she catches one of Natalie's cold calculating gazes.

She knows not everything isn't as it seems. She knows. _She knows._

She lets herself be used. She lets herself be the watched and monitored. She lets herself believe Natalie is all she seems.

She uses Natalie after Tony brings her the strawberries. She knows Natalie is using her too.

And in the aftermath, during the debriefings and the cleanup and the politics, they cross paths occasionally and Pepper smles, and Natalie smiles back. Pepper has made it through.

And despite the smile, she can see the darkness still in Natalie- _Natasha's_ eyes. A darkness that isn't borne solely of the horrible things she has done. A darkness that will be much harder to breach than her own.

_End._


	21. Twenty-one:  Higher Learning (Clint/Steve)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Undergraduates. 841 words, Clint/Steve, PG-13  
> Warning for fully called out (male) slut shaming.

“Jesus, Barton. You're such a slut.”

 

Clint met Tony's eye over the rim of the coffee pot, eyebrows raised. He took a gulp and put the pot back on the warming plate. Tony made a face and walked towards the espresso machine on the other side of the kitchen.

 

“Good thing you didn't say that to me in public, Stark. Slut shaming's likely to get you lynched.”

 

Tony grunted and picked up one of the handles for the machine, flipping it around in his hand carelessly. “That doesn't count when we're talking about Clint the coed.” He dropped the handle down on the bench and shoved it under the grinder with a clatter. “And it _really_ doesn't count when you're spreading your mouth herpes all over the communal kitchen.”

 

Clint curled his lip up in a sneer. “Says the worlds most famous manwhore.”

 

“Slut shaming, Barton? _Ouch._ ” He dispensed some coffee and tamped it down firmly, and twisted the handle into the brewing group. “Good to see you heed your own advice.”

 

“Shut up.” There was a pause, the only sound the espresso machine pump, and Clint turned back to his tablet.

 

“I mean, I get why _you're_ trolling the halls of NYU looking for undergrad pussy, but _Steve_?”

 

“Some of us didn't go to college, Tony.”

 

“ _Again_ , You I get. Getting on for forty, gets beat up on on a regular basis and _doesn't_ have superhuman powers... but _Steve?_ ” He took a sip of his coffee and raised his eyebrows. “And how're you dealing with the whole _superheroes at college_ thing? Don't you have people constantly swamping you for autographs? What about when someone's trying to take over the world? What about last month where you were stuck in Siberia for two weeks?”

 

Clint huffed and grabbed the coffee pot again, and took a large gulp. “For starters, hoodies and jeans go a long way to facilitate anonym-”

 

“Facilitate? _Facilitate?_ Jesus, when did you start using big words?”

 

Clint ignored him. “ _Secondly._ Secondly, have you seriously never heard of online lecture notes?”

 

“Barton, I have three doctorates and barely even know what a _regular_ lecture note is.”

 

Clint ducked his head. “Yeah, well some of us aren't information absorbing geniuses, so just drop it, okay?”

 

Tony leaned back against the counter and crossed his legs casually. “So anyway, I hear you're not just picking up chicks over there at the melting pot of desperate and gender indiscriminate hormones.” Clint looked back up and raised an eyebrow. “Pepper said she found a lonely, and what appeared to be hastily discarded... and far too tidy to be one of yours, man's shoe in the elevator this morning.

 

“Okay, first off, what makes you think I'm one hundred percent straight, anyway? Secondly, it's none of your goddamn business.”

 

“Well... it kinda is. Y'know considering you bought this one back to _a tower full of fucking superheroes._ ”

 

“It's not an issue.”

 

“I'm sure Cap'll beg to differ.”

 

“Trust me, it's not an issue. Steve-”

 

“I'll what?” Both of the kitchen's occupants looked up. Clint smiled.

 

“You'll give me a free pass for bringing some random back to the tower last night.”

 

Steve shrugged and cocked his head. “As long as you had them vetted by SHIELD first.”

 

Clint smirked. “Oh yeah, full intel work up on this one. Thought I'd better considering he's not just some chick I was planning on banging in the History building's stationery closet.”

 

“So not just some random then?” Tony took another gulp from his mug, and set it down on the counter. “Why, Barton. Have you finally found someone you want to snuggle with?' He crossed his arms and his eyes narrowed in what appeared to be a struggle to control his laughter.

 

“Snuggle? Ew.” Clint looked up at Steve, eyes wide. “I do _not_ snuggle.”

 

Steve raised his eyebrows. “Oh, I absolutely believe you.”

 

Tony pushed away from the counter and snatched up his mug, draining the last of the coffee. “If you'll excuse me, I have to go and tell Bruce that Cupid over here has gone and shot himself with one of his own arrows.” He dumped his mug in the dishwasher and clapped his hands, striding out of the kitchen with far more enthusiasm than was usual.

 

Steve turned his head back to Clint's once Tony had disappeared around the doorway. “You know he's just going to pull up last nights security camera footage, right?”

 

“I already asked JARVIS to email me the video of him having his aneurism.”

 

Steve snorted a laugh and ruffled Clint's hair. “You're a bad influence, you know that?”

 

“Says the guy who thought it would be funny to leave a shoe in the elevator.”

 

_End._


	22. Twenty-Two:  A Dream of Fire and Ash (Tony Stark & Natasha Stark)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Volcano. 749 words, Tony/Pepper and Tony & Natasha (Stark), PG-13

It's always the same. There's an orange glow, and the smell of sulfur. Then he looks up and he can see the Iron Man suit hovering high above, almost obscured by dark gray ash clouds. Then he feels the ooze enclose him, and it's cold. The hiss and sizzle of his skin is still ringing in his ears, but the lava swallowing him is cool and strangely soothing.

 

Then he wakes up, sweat cooling against the faint breeze of the air conditioning, Pepper asleep peacefully beside him.

 

It's always the same. The suit above, the lava below. The odd coolness and the cracking, orange glow. 

 

He sits up, and Pepper stirs. Her eyes flutter open and he places a hand on her shoulder, thumb caressing gently.

 

“'S'okay, Pep. Go back to sleep.”

 

“Did you...”

 

“Yeah, just... go back to sleep, mmkay?”

 

Pepper squeezes her eyes shut. “Mmm.” 

 

He sits silent and still for minutes, sometimes hours. He ends up in the lab aimlessly adjusting servos and circuits.

 

Day by day, the routine never changes.

 

One day she walks in. Brash words and red lips and innuendo. She's beautiful and terrifyingly intelligent, and looking at her makes Tony shiver uncomfortably. She tries on his suit, and despite the different anatomy, it fits without the need for adjustments.

 

The dreams begin to take on a new meaning. When he looks up at the ash cloud, he sees her in the suit, watching him sink below the surface. He doesn't feel afraid.

 

He's never had many friends. When he's not hidden away amongst his metal and wires, he's loud and obnoxious and often drunk. She keeps asking him where the rest of the team is, and he waves his hand and says something about apartments and dates and yoga.

 

Then Steve comes by one day to test new the new armour for the Captain America suit, and Tony can't help but see the longing in Natasha's eyes.

 

Afterward, his normal emotional ignorance disappears long enough for him to notice her continued reservation. His tact, however, is woefully absent, and he claps her on the shoulder as she stares blankly at the closed glass door.

 

“You never seen a super soldier naked from the waist up before?”

 

She doesn't look up, just presses her lips together and shrugs off his hand.

 

“He's my husband... y'know. There.”

 

“You're kidding? You and Captain Stick up his Ass?”

 

Her lip turns up a little at the side and she closes her eyes for a moment. “So you two dont... hang out or anything?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Huh.”

 

“Should we?” He sits back down on his chair and fiddles with a gauntlet that's sitting on a stand. “I mean... We don't really have much in common.”

 

“Jesus, I'm not asking you to fuck him, Tony. Just make friends with the guy.”

 

“Six months living in the same building, and we only talk when we're on Avengers business. I think that ship has long since sailed.”

 

“Sounds like you're assuming I got along with him at first too.”

 

“He's a condescending, goody goody jackass.”

 

“Have you ever had a conversation with him that didn't involve battle strategies or body armour?”

 

“No, but-”

 

“Just... trust me, Tony. Steve is... he's a constant.” She sighs and sits on the edge of the desk, and ruffles his already messy hair.

 

“Should you be telling me this?”

 

“Probably not.”

 

He looks up at a panel of monitors, one of which is showing the elevator Steve is currently riding in. He's blank faced and still. “He looks like an emotionless automaton.”

 

“Trust me, Steve's... friendship is something to grab onto when everything else looks completely hopeless. The world could be burning, but if he's there, you know everything is going to be fine.”

 

Tony looks up. “What about if I'm stuck in a pool of lava?”

 

Natasha raises her eyebrows and lets out a snort of laughter. “That's weirdly specific.”

 

“Yeah, well. Last week I got vomited on by a giant purple cockroach, so I'm not exactly ruling out volcanoes at this point.”

 

She smiles and looks thoughtful for a moment. “Don't spend your life pretending this is your heart.” She tapped the arc reactor in the center of his chest and stood back up. “Now I'm off to demolish half a bottle of Macallan, you in?”

 

_End._


	23. Twenty-three:  Mostly Empty People (Steve and Natasha)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Wobegone. 692 words, Steve and Natasha, Steve/Bucky implied, PG.  
> This was originally supposed to turn into Steve/Natasha porn, but it just didn't feel right. I will probably regret this decision because right now I've been hit with the MCU!Bucky feels and I'm all mopey.

There's a mostly empty bottle of bourbon on the small table. The wind is cold and gusty on the ninety third floor, occasionally threatening to topple the bottle to the tile.

 

There's a mostly empty man sitting next to the small table. He catches the bottle with fast reflexes when it tips a little too far, and pours another measure into the tumbler in his hand.

 

There's a mostly empty woman standing in the doorway leading to the balcony. She watches as the man for a minute before taking the vacant seat next to the small table.

 

The mostly empty bottle watches as the mostly empty woman and the mostly empty man talk about their mostly empty lives.

 

He talks about waiting for the next mission, the sitting and anticipation and hoping that the world won't need him.

 

She listens and smiles and pretends she's fooled by his excuses for a while, but in the end she was always going to ask.

 

“Do you think James would want this of you?” She gestures towards the bottle, and his eyes cut to hers sharply.

 

“What do you know about Bucky?”

 

She smiles grimly, and reaches for the bourbon, taking a swig before placing it back down heavily on the stainless steel.

 

“Does it work?”

 

“What?”

 

“Downing an entire bottle in half an hour?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then why try?”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Why are you here?'

 

“To talk.”

 

He looks out across the city again, and sighs. “What if I don't want to talk.”

 

“Then I'll sit.”

 

“You know, when I was in the show, one of the girls used to sit with me.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yeah. Said I looked lonely, and that I should stop being such a...” he snorts, and finishes what's remaining in his glass. “You know what? You don't want to hear that story.'

 

She's silent for a moment, and tops up his glass, following up with a swig of her own. “When I was eighteen, I met this man.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He stays silent. “He was a lot older than me, but didn't look a day over twenty-five. He had a metal arm, and they called him the Winter Soldier.”

 

“Why are you telling me this?”

 

“Just shut up and listen.” Her voice is calm, no hint of anger or frustration. “The Winter Soldier went by many names. Every time we met, he would have a new alias, and a new background, and it was around our third mission I realized he truly believed he was who he said he was.”

 

“The Red Room--”

 

“Brainwashed, yes.” She takes another drink, this time not bothering to replace the bottle on the table. “So I got curious. I started investigating myself, and discovered he was actually an American soldier, who was supposedly killed in action in 1944. A group of Russian intelligence agents found him at the bottom of a ravine in Germany. He was alive, a deep snow drift somehow cushioned his fall, even though it must've been hundreds of feet.”

 

Steve shows no reaction, his only movement the slight shake of his glass, his grip tight. When he does eventually speak, it's quiet and accusatory, almost venomous. “Why didn't you tell me?”

 

“I didn't know until this morning.”

 

He snorts and drains his drink, grabbing at the bottle she still has resting in the crook of her arm, and swallowing the last inch in the bottom. “I find that difficult to believe.”

 

“Believe me, don't believe me, whatever moves your furniture.” She pulls a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her jacket pocket and peels back the flap, pulling one out with her teeth and flicking it between her lips in one motion. She talks out the side of her mouth as she lights up. “I loved him.”

 

“I loved him too.” He holds out his hand and snaps his fingers, and she places a smoke and the lighter in his palm.

 

_End._


	24. Twenty-Four:  The Same But Different (Bruce)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Xenophobe. 474 words, Gen (Bruce), PG-13  
> Warning for animal cruelty/death. Also, sorry but this is just depressing as hell.

When he was six, Bruce Banner found a dog on the side of the road. It was mangy and malnourished, so he took it home.

His father wasn't impressed, and Bruce spent the next three days hiding the bruises from his mother by wearing long sleeved shirts and baseball caps. Brian said the dog was bound to be diseased and flea infested, and how _dare_ Bruce bring such a disgusting creature into his home.

But Bruce kept the dog. He hid him in the empty lot down the road, kept him on a long leash and snuck him food twice every day. He named him Roger, and played fetch until it was too dark to stay out any longer.

He petted and hugged Roger. He played with him in the rain and the snow, until one day Roger broke free of his lead and followed Bruce home.

Roger scratched at the door late that night, and while Bruce was asleep, Brian stumbled to the door, drunk and belligerent, and shot Roger once in the head, leaving him on the stoop for Bruce to find the next morning.

Bruce buried the dog in a shallow grave underneath an oak tree in the backyard. He scrubbed at the mess of blood and viscera on the concrete of the steps and path. He hosed and scraped and brushed until there was no trace of Roger, or what had happened to him. He dared not cry.

Now Bruce is thirty-five, and a mangy, malnourished mess of a human being. He's aimless, and hunted, and has some serious anger management issues.

He's standing in a laboratory, two thousand feet above Manhattan, waiting for the chains to clamp around him. He's waiting, but they aren't coming, and even though he's seen fear in the eyes of those around him, he knows it's not just him that he's afraid of.

He sees terror and unease in the eyes of the junior agents when they look at Natasha. There's an uncomfortable silence whenever Steve walks into a room, and nobody seems to be able to look at Thor at all.

Then there's Tony. All bluster, and snark, and deliberately obtuse comments. Like he's _trying_ to make people dislike him. Bruce can see that Steve thinks Tony is a bully, but Bruce thinks that Tony's just as lost and desperate as the rest of them.

When he was six, Bruce Banner found a mangy, malnourished dog on the side of the road. He kept him in an empty lot and named him Roger. He fed him and played with him, but Roger still ended up dead.

Now Bruce is thirty-five, and he is the mangy, malnourished mutt that's looking to be rescued. He's just hoping that being found by more of his own will stop him from becoming a smear on the pavement.

_End._


	25. Twenty-Five:  Extracurricular (Darcy/Phil)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Yearning. 558 words, Darcy/Phil, PG-13.

There's nothing different about the apartment at all. It's still messy, yet not particularly lived in looking. The coffee stain on the hall rug hasn't been removed, and there's still a spare set of car keys dangling from the coat rack that's screwed to the wall.

Darcy doesn't even really know why she's there. On some level she understands the chaotic thoughts that led her to the third floor walk up in Queens, but as she sits down on the couch and hangs her head in her hands, she can't feel anything but emptiness.

She's a twenty-five year old with no direction. Three weeks ago, he would have told her to get her head out of her ass and stop feeling sorry for herself. He would have told her to be thankful that a god had fallen from the sky, and tied her eternally to public servitude.

But now Phil's gone, and she didn't find out until yesterday. He's gone, and even though they never saw each other at work after that first day, where he met her in the foyer and promptly passed her off to Agent Morse, she still expected at least a phone call. There had been some pretty serious paperwork involved, after all. You can't even meet a fellow employee for lunch on a Sunday without filling out a damn form.

So she sits on the old leather sofa, body curled in a ball against one of the arms, and breathes in the smell of the apartment. She has no idea if all in her mind, but she imagines she can smell his soap, and the cheap supermarket shampoo he uses on what's left of his hair. She imagines she can hear him breathing softly in the next room, passed out after another long day. She imagines she's not just a twenty-five year old grunt who _was_ dating a forty-seven year old super agent.

She cried for hours the night before. She can feel the tears pricking at her eyes again, and blinks them away and rubs at the dampness. There's an ache in her chest, and she sucks in a shuddering breath.

“Fuck it, Lewis. Get it together.”

There's a creak from the direction of the bedroom, and she rolls off the couch quickly, drawing her gun from the holster tucked beneath the waistband of her pants. Her taser is still safely in her purse, which is at the far end of the rather large three seater. She shuffles to the right a little, but another creak stops her progress. There's the sound of bare feet padding across floorboards, and she wrinkles her brown in confusion.

She'd be lying if she didn't immediately assume that Phil wasn't as monogamous as she had initially thought.

The footsteps have moved towards the kitchen now, and she peers around the side of the couch, standing as quietly as she can manage, and aiming her gun at the open freezer door. There's a sweat pants clad posterior poking out from behind the stainless steel, and she hopes her voice isn't as shaky as she feels when she eventually speaks up.

“Turn around, hands where I can see them.”

The body freezes, and there's the sound of something being placed back on a shelf, before the person turns around, and the door swings shut.

“Phil?”

_End._


	26. Twenty Six:  Everyone does it (Steve/Tony)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Zoned. 687 words, Steve/Tony, PG-13  
> So I thought seeing as we started with a Stony ficlet, we would end with one too. This concludes my Avengers A-Z, thanks so much for reading. I hope y'all enjoyed it, and if you can find it in your hearts to leave some feedback, I will be incredibly grateful!

It's funny. And that means both funny ha-ha _and_ funny strange. It's funny because everyone in the tower, no matter how extreme their personality, reverts to the same default expression, at some point, between the hours of ten and twelve every Tuesday morning.

Well, everyone except for Steve, but it would be kind of odd for someone to be distracted by their own physique.

Tony's taken to calling it _zoned_. Like, if Natasha gets unexpectedly laid out by Clint, she's clearly zoned. There's no way Clint would be able to take her without some serious zoneage. 

Steve has no idea what it means, but he chalks that down to it being one of the few colloquialisms he hasn't picked up, and gets on with whatever he's doing. When he does eventually punch the term into urban dictionary, he's a little confused, mostly because _zoning_ doesn't seem like something Natasha would do, but then what would he know? He's only known her for three and a half months, people are complex.

The first time Clint zones, he's practicing shooting while hanging upside down from the gymnastics rings. Steve's in the boxing ring, facing off against Natasha, and Clint accidentally hits Tony in the ass with one of the soft tipped arrows.

After Natasha's first time, she swears she's over it, and that there's no way she'll lose her focus like that again. But then the week following, Steve takes off his shirt and wipes his forehead, and she falls from the pommel horse, barely managing to cover the clumsy movement as a slightly messy dismount.

Bruce spends most of his time in the corner doing yoga, or pilates, or tai chi, and usually has the expression no matter what direction he's facing. Nobody really knows whether or not it counts as zoning, but no one is really game to ask. Pepper tripped over him her first time, even though he was a good five meters from the entrance to the gymnasium. Which is where she had been when she'd spotted Steve practicing his tumbling.

The team's first impression of Rhodey's new girlfriend had been interesting. It was the same Tuesday that Clint had shot Tony in the butt, and in amongst the whining and exclamations of careless projectile usage, a wolf whistle had echoed across the large room. It turned out that Major Danvers wasn't afraid to voice her gratitude when faced with a perfectly sculpted behind, even when accompanied by the person she was currently sleeping with.

Tony has no idea when his first time was. He thinks maybe it was the morning he found Steve in his kitchen looking for milk in nothing but a pair of low slung sweat pants. Or could have been that time he accidentally on purpose walked in on him in the SHIELD decontamination shower.

Or that time he'd made Steve put on _and_ take off his whole suit in the lab, when all he really needed to work on was the cowl.

It definitely wasn't the time they had that raging argument and Steve had pushed him up against one of the corridor walls just a tiny bit too hard. That wasn't zoning, that was totally fear.

Completely. There was absolutely no zoning involved in that. None at all.

It would be totally weird to be turned on by a dude shoving him against a reinforced wall, right? And then Steve had kissed him, and it he hadn't done anything because he was _scared_. Not at all because he was distracted by a pair of _ohmygodincredible_ pecs pressing up against his and Jesus H Christ those shoulders.

But then even Tony has to admit that he's totally zoning because he's having some sort of sexuality crisis, right in the middle of sticking his tongue down Steve's throat. And he really doesn't know when that happened, but apparently it did, and okay, so there's a _very_ large hand tangled in his hair and that's new, and really fucking hot.

Now that he thinks about it, it was probably that time with the fridge. Yes, it was _definitely_ the time with the fridge.

 

_End._


End file.
